


Fifty Shades of Barbossa

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hector's No Little Boy, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-07 03:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14071923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: Oh, to be a fly on the wall when Barbossa gets rough and demanding.





	Fifty Shades of Barbossa

**Author's Note:**

> The Barbossa/Innkeeper arc was just screaming for a PWP. They've been together for some years now, and Barbossa is often given to letting his Neanderthal side take over in bed. Clearly, the innkeeper's long since discovered that she likes it. A lot ;-)
> 
> It will be briefly referenced, so just to clear up a matter of ordnance terminology: when land-based, as at a fort, they're called cannons. On a ship, they're called guns, and those who man them are known as gunners. There was a big mistake in _At World's End_ when Gibbs — an old salt who should have definitely known better — yells, "Cannoneers, sight the masts!" In one of the first drafts of _On Stranger Tides_ , the writers had Barbossa calling his gunners 'cannoneers' (ack — he'd never!), but it was thankfully corrected in the final script when he orders, "Gunners, take posts!"

 

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

 

He's been itching to get under the innkeeper's skirts for a week.  
  
A man like Barbossa spends half his life feeling hot and bothered, but not like this.  For days now, he's hung on with both hands to a prick that refuses to back down no matter how many times he strokes it off, and he knows there's only one thing that will really satisfy:  to get the innkeeper — _his_ innkeeper — into bed, spank her until her backside turns rosy red, then dig into her just as hard and fast as he possibly can.  He'll be going 'round at least twice, and probably more until the pressure inside him finally lets up.  
  
He's desperate, and he knows he's going to hurt her.  At the moment, he wonders if he cares.  
  
He undoubtedly will later, but not now.  Everything animal in Barbossa has come to the fore, and every thought in his head — both the auburn-tressed one above his shoulders and the (not much!) smaller one-eyed fellow trying to poke its way through his breeches — is trained on the blessed relief he'll feel a few hours from now.  
  
_Bloody hell!_   he thinks as he leans on the rail and takes his fiftieth look through a spyglass at the port coming closer and closer.  _Can we fuckin' speed things up?_   He doesn't notice how he's rubbing what by now seems like a permanent hard-on lightly, rhythmically against the wood, or the sheen of sweat that's broken out on his forehead;  all he knows is that he'd fevered and can't stand the heat.  _Come on!!_  
  
A master sailor who's not one to be relegated to the mere position of battle leader, Barbossa never leaves to the bo'sun the duties that go along with bringing the _Black Pearl_ into port, but himself gives the many orders that will see the anchor dropped and goods to be fenced loaded into the cockboats, along with assigning which men will go ashore first and deciding who will wait until later.  It's something he's done so many times that it's automatic and no one notices how his attention's wandering;  that he's preoccupied with staring up towards the inn on the hill.  _What's she doin' now?_   he wonders between shouts of  "Drop that barrel again an' I'll put ten stripes on yer back!"  and  "Don't give me that fuckin' long face!  What, ye think th' trollops'll vanish afore ye can go ashore?"   _Prob'ly cleanin' th' house or makin' th' beds._  
  
The very thought of a bed gets him to thinking,  _I don't give a fuck which bed it be in, or if it be in a bed a'tall.  Lord Almighty, Dove, but ye must do somethin' afore m' cock explodes an' me heart burns up in m' chest!_  
  
It's only heat — her heat — that will save him.  
  
It takes an interminably long time to row to the dock, and the climb up the lane seems even longer.  "Dove!"  Barbossa bellows, not bothering with his usual politeness of knocking once or twice to announce his arrival.  "Where are ye, darlin'?  Get that soft little arse of yers out here, for I be needin' a welcome!"  
  
The two lodgers who are sitting and smoking in the parlor eyeball each other and snicker, while Cora comes out of the kitchen and frowns.  "You needn't yell, Cap'n,"  she says, annoyed.  "Th' Missus is upstairs…"  
  
'The Missus' chooses that moment to come down, a wide smile on her face.  "Hector!  I haven't had a single free minute to look out the window, or I'd have seen the _Pearl_ come in…"  
  
Barbossa is on the stairs before the innkeeper can say another word, kissing her hard, pulling off her cap, then lifting her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he carries her back up to their room.  "Take yer dress off afore I rip it,"  he orders.  "Take ev'rythin' off.  Now!"  
  
He's dropped his own clothing before she's halfway done, so he makes good on the 'threat,' tearing at her chemise and stockings and leaving her standing there utterly, blushingly naked.  "Oh, God!"  he breathes, dropping heavily to his knees, both arms around her thighs, as he presses his nose into her soft black curls and extends the tip of his tongue to find her already grown deliciously wet.  Then he hops up and flops down on his back on the silken quilt.  "Get up here.  You ride, I'll watch."  
  
The innkeeper looks pointedly between his legs, deciding he looks even bigger than usual, and her eyes widen.  
  
But this is no time to dilly-dally, and Barbossa grasps her hand, digging his fingernails into it to the point of pain.  "Get up here, woman!"  he snaps.  
  
Still, the innkeeper hesitates, and for that, she'll pay.  
  
Barbossa's known forever that, although she's embarrassed to admit it, the flat of his hand applied hard to her rump gets the innkeeper warmed up and very frisky.  "So, that be th' way of it, then?"  he says, sitting up and yanking her over his lap (or as well as he can with his very hard cock in the way).  "Not gonna listen t' me?"  He brings his hand down, leaving a bright red mark, then draws his sharp nails along her skin, grinning when she whimpers.  "Tryin' t' provoke me int' givin' yer arse a thwackin', eh?"  Again, and again.  "Ah, ye like it, don't ye?"  Again.  "Answer me!"  
  
The innkeeper's voice is muffled in the quilt.  "Aye."  
  
"What's that?"  Barbossa circles his hand around, admiring the curve of her hips, then whacks her several more times in quick succession.  "What's that ye say?"  
  
"Aye!"  
  
_That be plainly obvious_ ,  he laughs to himself as he presses two fingers inside her to find she's positively dripping.  "Well now, look at that,"  he says, withdrawing them to show her how wet they are before putting them in his mouth.  "Mmm.  'Tis quite a tasty state ye're in, Dove, but now I've a mind t' make it not so easy for ye."  
  
"Hector…!"  
  
"Well?  What is it that ye want?  Ye want me t' fuck you?  I won't, if ye'll not do what I tell you."  _Now why did I say that?_   Barbossa wonders.  _I'll be fuckin' her up one end an' down t' other no matter what._   "Gonna do what I say?"  He can feel the innkeeper nod, but he wants a verbal acknowledgement.  "Are ye?"  
  
She shivers, but it's not in fright.  "Anything… anything you say."  
  
"Anythin', hmm?"  _Christ, darlin', but ye do have a first-rate arse,_   he thinks as he squeezes it.  "How 'bout ye get on yer knees an' give me a good, deep suck?"  
  
Barbossa doesn't exactly have to beg for this, as the innkeeper loves the taste of him and is more than thrilled to oblige, though a mishap comes when a strand of his hair snags between her teeth and yanks free of his skin.  "Owww!!"  he barks, backhanding her away.  
  
The innkeeper is in a heap on the floor, breathing hard, her eyes glistening, not sure if she might have bitten him.  "I'm sorry,"  she pants.  
  
"Ye should be!  Now get up on th' fuckin' bed!"  She misunderstands and makes to lie down, but Barbossa's not finished;  he wrestles her up into a sitting position, grasping her wrists and holding her hands to the wall above her head as he kneels before her.  "Open yer mouth…!"  
  
He knows the innkeeper's making a valiant effort not to strangle on the sheer length and breadth of him, but he's so crazed with lust that he can neither take the care he should, nor stop himself when he feels his crisis approach and overtake him.  "Oh, _fuck!!"_   he rasps, over and over when he hears her half-choking, half-swallowing, and goddamn, it's such a delightful sound.  
  
The innkeeper's gasping for air when Barbossa finally pulls out of her mouth, leaving a sticky dribble of white running down her chin.  "Ah:  there's a picture,"  he whispers.  "I ever tell ye what a grand treat it is t' watch yer lips stretch 'round me cock?"  
  
Frequently, as it happens, but the innkeeper's still too breathless to do more than nod.  
  
Barbossa laughs, then uses his fingertips to wipe his semen from her face, spreading it on her lips and cheeks and rubbing it in.  "Get on yer hands an' knees,"  he says in a soft growl;  and she does, although he needs to push her head down onto her crossed arms so her backside is up in the air.  "Hmm.  Needs a little more color,"  he decides.  
  
He's not gentle with her, striking her round bottom and thighs until both are flaming, then nudging the latter farther apart so some of his blows land squarely where she's most tender.  It's not that Barbossa wants to hurt her just for the sake of inflicting pain;  it's that he's learned the innkeeper has developed a liking for the sting that his hand delivers;  for the way he bites her shoulders and the scrape of his nails;  for the roughness and violence that's inherent in his nature.  She loves those moments when he's tender, but loves just as much the more frightening ones, as now…  
  
With no warning, Barbossa grasps the innkeeper's hips and hammers himself straight into her.  
  
He can barely hear her stifled cries above his own groans of pleasure;  can hardly see straight for the fire consuming him.  He'd thought he'd not last more than a dozen seconds, but something inside him holds him back, keeps him right on the edge, has him screaming and swearing, not caring who else in the house might hear him in his frenzied drive for release.  
  
Barbossa reaches under to put a hand low on the innkeeper's belly, laughing as he feels himself sliding along the hot, mysterious place within her.  "Ye ought t' see th' view from here,"  he hisses, leaning over her back to nip at her ear.  "Yer cunny's wide open, lass, an' wet as a rainy spring day."  He can hear her panting;  the finest sound he's ever heard.  "I'll put ye atop me afore too long, but damn, I'm likin' how ye look like this."  Then he circles his hips a few more times, drives deep, pulls out halfway, and sighs in satisfaction at the sight of the slippery moisture all over his cock and dampening his short hairs.  _Nothin' like proof that a woman's in heat for ye, Hector, old son,_   he laughs inwardly.  
  
But he can't keep going like this, and presently, he withdraws, turns the innkeeper around, and looks down at her, his face just inches from hers.  "I ain't doin' all th' work here, Dove,"  he says, stretching out on his back so his cock springs proudly, invitingly upward.  "Now, I told ye:  get up on me an' ride.  Up, up, up…!"  
  
_She's so beautiful this way,_   Barbossa thinks, looking up at her damp skin and hair and her narrowed dark eyes;  at the strain of her muscles each time she bears down on him.  _She's learned well, an' I were th' one as taught her._   "Harder, lass!  Thighs wide an' push harder;  take me deep as ye can an' then some!  Harder, God damn it!"  
  
The way the innkeeper whimpers and moans nearly undoes him, but he's not ready, not yet;  not before he gets to observe something particularly enjoyable from being in this position.  "Ohhh, there's such a sweet little cunny ye have, m' darlin',"  he breathes, his fingers playing over the wet flesh that has him captured.  "She be swollen an' red, an' I can see where I slip up inside her…"  
  
Inflamed by his words and wishing she could see what he does, the innkeeper leans forward and tries to catch Barbossa's hands so she can twine her fingers between his, but he has other plans:  he kneads the innkeeper's breasts so hard that he bruises them, twists both hands in her hair and yanks on it until she squeals, then pushes her so she's leaning backwards.  "Ride me harder!"  he snarls, knowing he has only moments to go.  "Fuck me, woman…!"  The innkeeper begins to shudder, her soft wetness squeezing around him, gripping tight and not letting him go.  "Aye, that's it… that's it…!"  
  
Barbossa seizes her by the arms, rolling over with her and forcing her onto her back barely an instant before he fires off like one of his own ship's guns and nearly as loudly, shrieking into the flattened pillow and feeling the hum of her answering cries against his neck.  "Christ!!"  he wheezes, barely able to catch his breath for the sensations that still have him clutched between the legs.  "Damn, woman, ye milked me like a fuckin' cow!"  
  
That's obvious from the wet spot that's beginning to spread under the innkeeper, and she giggles in Barbossa's ear.  "Did you miss me, then, Hector?"  she asks.  
  
"Are ye jokin'?"  He snickers, then strokes the innkeeper's bruised and reddened skin, soothing it, murmuring of the pleasure she gives him;  and, especially, telling her how she's managed to quench the flames that have consumed him for too long.  "Ye're all I been thinkin' of for days now, sweet darlin'.  Feels like you been thinking 'bout me, too…"  
  
"Every day, lover,"  she whispers,  "and always."  
  
This answer makes Barbossa feel good in a way that nothing else has ever done.  "I must return here t' ye more often, then, Dove.  Won't do no good t' be leavin' ye lonely and achin' for me."  
  
He doesn't know how true this is for the innkeeper;  won't admit that that the loneliness is true on his end, too, and that no paid companionship ever really takes care of the ache.  But what he does admit is that he's never as satisfied as when he lies in the arms of this woman;  looks into her eyes;  sees her smile.  There's not one bit of artifice in her, and not since he was a child has he felt so truly cared for.  
  
_Then again,_   Barbossa laughs to himself as he plants a wet, searching kiss on the innkeeper's lips,  _neither mother nor sisters ever cared for me like this._

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-     


End file.
